


in softest air, a stutter

by alexiley



Series: if only for a moment [1]
Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bathing/Washing, Body Horror, Canon Asexual Character, Canon Compliant, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Heavy Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Kissing, M/M, Mild Gore, No beta we kayak like Tim, Non-Sexual Intimacy, post MAG 160, showering together
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-21
Updated: 2020-09-21
Packaged: 2021-03-07 21:07:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,571
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26574247
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alexiley/pseuds/alexiley
Summary: The sky is raining blood.Or at least that’s what it looks like, what it tastes like, as Martin sprints back to the safe house. He needs to get back to Jon, he has to know if he’s okay, if he’s even alive. And God, that thought really does bring a strangled sob to his lips.The aftermath of MAG 160
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Series: if only for a moment [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1939204
Comments: 30
Kudos: 247
Collections: Repulsed/Averse Ace Jon Archivist





	in softest air, a stutter

**Author's Note:**

> I'm actually kinda proud of this one.
> 
> The majority of the dialogue in the beginning is taken directly from ep 160 and therefore does not belong to me, but I did take some creative liberty with the content.
> 
> CW for slight body horror (I really don't think it's anything too graphic but better to be safe than sorry) and also some mild body image issues.
> 
> Enjoy :)

_In softest air, a stutter_  
_Steers the heart away from the bane_  
_Leaves the lasting sorrow and carries me anew_

~

The sky is raining blood.

Or at least that’s what it looks like, what it tastes like, as Martin sprints back to the safe house. He feels...well, he isn’t sure he can put words to what he’s feeling. He wants to scream, he wants to fall to his knees and sob, but all that can come later. He needs to get back to Jon, he has to know if he’s okay, if he’s even alive. And God, that thought really does bring a strangled sob to his lips.

The wind howls around him, almost sounding human in its anguish, as he tears the front door open and bolts up the stairs to where he last saw Jon, smiling faintly and curled over a new statement. God, how could he leave him _alone_?

“Jon!”

He pushes the door open so hard it slams into the wall with a crash and his heart.

Stops.

Lying prone on the floor like he was flung there, is Jon, small and unmoving. The window across from him is shattered to pieces, glass littering the floor in sharp, unforgiving shards, the furious wind wailing into the room, unhindered and smelling of salt and blood.

Martin rushes to Jon’s side, eyes brimming with tears, and lifts him so his head is propped up in Martin’s lap. Jon’s cheeks are stained black with something that looks disturbingly like ink, the liquid dripping from beneath his eyelids and from his parted lips, and Martin is so, so afraid. He checks for a pulse, praying to every god he can think of, and nearly sobs when he feels one, faint but there nonetheless.

“Jon, wake up!”

He shakes him, hard. No response. With his whole body trembling, he does it again. And again. “Wake up! Jon, Jon!”

Still nothing.

It can’t be like this; it can’t. Martin won’t let it. Jon has to wake up. He _has_ to.

“JON, WAKE UP!” He slaps Jon clean across the face and _hates_ himself for it but feels relief flood his body when Jon comes to with a disoriented cry. Then his eyes fly open, and Martin recoils, hating himself for that too.

The whites of Jon’s eyes are no longer white. Instead, they are a deep, unnerving black that is the same color as the slowly creeping ink that blemishes the rest of his face like tear tracks. His irises, which were once a warm hazel brown, are now an almost luminescent, piercing green. He blinks as if, for a moment, he isn’t sure where he is.

“Wh—Martin? Oh God, what hap—” The words are barely out of Jon’s mouth before he doubles over, coughs racking his body. The dark ink continues to pour from his lips and drip down his neck, and it’s like he’s choking on it.

“Jon? Jon, are you alright?” And it’s a stupid question. Jon isn’t alright. Martin clutches him closely, that same panic from earlier clawing its way up his throat as he realizes Jon could easily die right here in his arms.

Jon coughs and coughs, then, finally, goes limp in Martin’s arms, eyes shut tightly, his face stained almost completely black. His voice is steadier when he speaks again. “What happened?”

“I, I don’t, I don’t know. Everything—,” Martin tries to take a deep breath, but it just makes his eyes burn and his voice shake even more. “It’s all gone wrong!”

Jon opens his eyes again. “Help me up.”

As soon as Martin lifts Jon to his feet, Jon lets out a small gasp and stumbles closer to the now open window.

Martin immediately reaches for his arm to pull him back. “No, no, no—don’t, don’t go outside. It’s, it’s _real_ bad.”

“Oh, God.” Jon’s voice is barely audible, his new eyes wide. Outside is dark and blood-stained and cold and stifling hot and rotting and visceral and empty and false and cruel and known and unknown and completely devoid of life and full to the brim with screams and pain and _fear_ and it goes on for forever and forever and for—

“I don’t know if it’s just _here_ , or—”

“No,” Jon shakes his head. “No, it’s everywhere. They’re all here now. I can feel _all_ of it.”

Martin’s grip tightens on Jon’s arm. “Jon. Jon, I’m scared.”

“The whole world is afraid, Martin. Because of me.” He laughs quietly as he says it, though there is no humor to be heard, only quaking admiration. “And the Watcher...drinks it all in.”

Martin has never felt so terrified in his life as Jon pulls away from his grip, eyes trained on something out of the window Martin can’t see. There are tears on Jon’s face, Martin realizes, real, fearful tears. “Jon?”

“Look at the sky, Martin,” Jon’s voice shakes, a faint smile pulling at his ink-stained lips. “Look at the _sky_.”

Martin doesn’t dare look away from Jon’s now trembling form as he reaches out and points once again at something Martin cannot see.

“ _It’s looking back_.” And Jon laughs in earnest this time; he laughs like he’s terrified, manic and breathless, like he can’t stop. Tears stream down Jon’s face, and Martin can feel his heart shattering to pieces like the glass beneath his feet.

Jon’s legs give out, and he crumples to the floor.

“JON!”

Martin once again rushes to Jon’s side. He takes him into his arms, finally letting himself cry. God, how could this _happen_?

Jon isn’t alright. His entire body is shaking dreadfully, and his skin is freezing to the touch, but he’s awake, unnerving eyes half-lidded in exhaustion and grief as he peers up at Martin almost tenderly.

“I’m so sorry, Martin.”

“No, no, it’s fine. Everything’s fine. You’re fine. We, we can fix this. We _have_ to be able to _fix this_.”

Jon just shakes his head in despair. “I am so, so sorry. I don’t...There’s nothing we can do.”

Martin doesn’t believe that. He _refuses_ . He _will_ fix this. He will find a way, and he will fix it. He and Jon will fix it together.

“Come on,” he begins, voice strained but resolute, “We can’t stay here. Can you stand?”

Jon looks at him sadly before slowly shaking his head. “I, I don’t think so.”

“Fine,” Martin says firmly before scooping Jon up as gently as he can and carrying him down the stairs. He’s painfully light, almost weightless, as he wordlessly buries his face in the crook of Martin’s neck.

Martin walks down the hall from the base of the stairs and pushes the door to the bathroom open with one foot. With some trepidation, he flicks the light on. The mirror positioned over the sink impartially displays two people who look as if they’ve seen hell. And Martin supposes they have. His own clothes and face are stained dark with blood and viscera from his sprint back; it’s only now that he realizes how cloying it feels, sticky and painfully unpleasant.

He sets Jon carefully on the counter, who immediately turns and blinks at his reflection, trembling fingers reaching up and brushing the skin just beneath his now darkened eyes. His shoulders slump, almost imperceptibly, but Martin notices. He gently turns Jon’s face away from the mirror and toward him. Jon doesn’t meet his gaze, instead staring down at his scarred hand, a habit Martin saw often when Jon woke from a particularly bad nightmare, as if seeing it further cemented how inhuman he felt.

Martin sighs softly, before lifting the burned hand to his lips and pressing a tender kiss to his knuckles. “Hey. Look at me.”

Jon does so but only after a long moment of hesitation. When their eyes meet, it’s evident Jon is trying very hard to fight off tears.

Martin smiles sadly. “Oh, Jon.”

Jon’s shoulders start to shake. He presses a hand to his mouth to smother the sobs as his body curls in on itself, and tiny broken sounds are torn from his lips. Martin pulls him to his chest, laying a kiss to his hair. He searches for words of reassurance but finds none that could possibly remedy what’s happened.

“I’m so sorry, Martin. I’m sorry. So so sorry.” Jon’s words are small and rent through with emotion.

“Shh you apologize too much,” Martin’s own voice is thick with tears, but he grips Jon tighter, gently cupping his head, offering what comfort he can.

“I did this. Don’t you understand?” Jon pulls away so he can look Martin in the eye. “I...It’s my fault, Martin.”

Martin shakes his head. “No, it’s not.”

“I tried, I tried but it didn’t matter. Magnus won. And it’s my fault!” His voice is loud at the end but breaks and dissolves into more sobs. He buries his face in Martin’s chest again, and Martin holds him because that’s all he can do.

“I’m a monster.”

Martin barely hears the words muttered into his chest, but they fill him with a fierce anger. “Don’t you dare say that.”

“Why shouldn’t I? It’s the truth.” Jon’s face is hidden, but Martin can feel the disparaging smile against his neck. “I just ended the world for Christ’s sake, Martin. And my eyes…”

“You’re not a monster, Jon,” Martin says adamantly, pressing another kiss to the crown of Jon’s head. “You’re the most human person I know.”

Jon lets out a small whimper and wraps his arms around Martin’s neck tightly. “I love you.” 

It’s so quiet, but Martin hears it still. He smiles shakily and breaths a small “I love you too” into Jon’s hair.

It’s a while before Jon’s tears subside into hiccuping breaths. Once he thinks he can bear to, Martin pulls away and brings a hand to cup Jon’s cheek; Jon leans into it almost immediately, his face a mess of inky black, now smudged from crying.

“Let’s clean you up, okay?”

Jon nods silently, hands remaining tucked neatly in his lap.

When Jon doesn’t move to, Martin gently brushes a finger against the cardigan Jon is wearing, realizing faintly that it’s one of his own. “May I?”

Jon looks up at him and takes a shaky breath. “Yes.”

They talked about boundaries only a few days after first arriving at the safe house. Martin sat patiently while Jon stuttered through explanations, looking, not ashamed—far from it—but tense, as if he thought Martin would react poorly to learning he didn’t want to have sex. And Martin smiled; as if he could react poorly to _anything_ Jon ever shared with him. Once Jon was done, Martin was quick to reassure; it was fine, Jon, it was good, just being together was far more than Martin had ever hoped for. And Jon smiled with something akin to relief evident in the way his entire body relaxed, and then he asked to kiss him. Martin said yes, of course, he said yes, how could he not.

But this, here and now, is new territory for both of them. As Martin pulls off the cardigan, he asks Jon if he can remove the shirt beneath. Jon responds with a soft “yes”. And when his shirt joins the cardigan, folded neatly and set beside the sink, Martin asks again and then again with each article of clothing, until Jon is standing bare and exposed on shaky legs. He has his arms crossed across his chest, almost to make himself smaller though he really doesn’t need to. Martin thought Jon hadn’t been eating nearly enough, and seeing him now is more than enough proof to support his point. Jon had always been slight, but Martin can see the outline of his ribs now, as well as the gap where two are missing. His skin is also littered with scars from far too many near misses. It makes Martin’s heart ache to see him like this, not only scarred but self-conscious and holding himself as if he isn’t the most beautiful person Martin has ever seen.

Martin smiles tenderly at him, unsure whether he’s allowed to reach out and touch him, before stepping to the shower and praying there’s still enough hot water left to make for an at least tolerable experience; he lets the water run and then turns to help Jon into the shower. Jon takes his hand gratefully.

Once he’s sure Jon is settled in the steady stream of warmth, Martin backs away to give Jon a bit of privacy. But before he gets the chance, Jon darts out to grab his wrist.

“Stay?” he murmurs, not quite meeting Martin's eye. “Please.”

Martin shifts his hand so he can intertwine his fingers with Jon’s and gives a squeeze. “Wasn’t planning on going far.”

“No, I mean…” Jon trails off, clearly unsure of how to phrase his request and gestures around him. “I mean would you...stay.”

Up until this point, Martin was able to keep his face fairly neutral, but those few words are all it takes for his cheeks to flush red with heat.

Jon must take notice because he’s quick to add, “Only if you want to, it’s, it’s fine if you don’t—”

“No, I…” Martin swallows, suddenly feeling nervous. “I want to. That is if you’re sure.”

Jon fixes him with a slightly exasperated look that fills Martin with unbearable fondness. “I wouldn’t have asked if I wasn’t sure.”

And that, he supposes, is enough for Martin. He yanks off his jumper, keeping his gaze trained on the tile beneath him, trying to not think about anything too hard. Admittedly, it will be nice to wash off the stickiness of the blood and not have to wait until Jon is done.

It feels like hours go by before Martin finishes and places his clothes next to Jon’s. Then he steps into the shower beside Jon, careful to leave space between them. Jon huffs in aggravation and takes Martin’s hand and guides him into the stream of water. It feels amazing, and Martin lets out a contented sigh before realizing how close he’s standing to Jon.

Jon’s dark hair is wet and falling around his face as he tilts his head up into the stream to let it wash away the inky black, and when he smiles fondly at Martin, Martin doesn’t think he can do anything but kiss him.

Jon seems caught off guard at first but hums against his mouth after a moment, kissing him back just as fervently, and it’s comforting to be able to feel the warmth of Jon’s skin against his own.

When they pull away, Jon quickly tucks himself against Martin, arms flung around his chest, pressing chaste kisses to the freckles strewn across Martin’s collar bone. Martin holds him, curling his entire body around the love of his life, and never wants to let go.

Outside the world is in shambles, but here, they are safe. The proximity and the heat of the water soothe the ache in Martin’s chest and replaces it with a different kind of sensation, something warm and all-consuming.

The water beats down on both of them, and Jon sings something under his breath, beautiful and fragile just like the man himself, and Martin loves him more than anything left in the world. It’s as simple as that.

As simple as that.

**Author's Note:**

> *thinks about the intimacy of showering together* *thinks about the intimacy of showering together* * thinks about the intimacy of showering together* *th—*
> 
> Title taken from "A Stutter" by Olafur Arnalds
> 
> Thank you so much for reading; comments and kudos do really make my day <33
> 
> Come say hi on [Tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/alexiley) and yell at me about tma (I'm serious,, feel free)


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